


Arise and Go

by orphan_account



Category: Final Fantasy XII, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bipolar Disorder, Character Development, Learning to Grow, Manic/Depressive Episodes, Mental Illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki isn't okay, isn't thinking right, isn't in control.  It takes someone new realize it.  Fill for <a href="http://norsekink.livejournal.com/8195.html?thread=17235203#t17235203">this</a> norsekink prompt on livejournal.</p><p>Full Title :  Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet; If it could weep, it could arise and go.</p><p>Taken from the poem "Grief" by Elizabeth Barret Browning</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Step 1: Identification

When it comes down to it, the reaction is purely instictual. Years of watching this behavoir, years of doing all he could to hold his lord in the tenuous balance between highs and lows of a mercutial temper without being able to seek help, for fear of consequences and political stability. He didn't even think anymore, beyond that first recognition of 'Damn'.  
  
Ignored is the strangeness of these people: their garb and their architecture, the strangeness of this world he steps forward into from the bunker that had been a part of this 'S.H.I.E.L.D'. An organization both familiar in its purpose and strange in its practice. Ignored are the implicit orders from the self-same organization to stay out of this fight. Ignored are the ringing in his head and the crushing weight in his chest–now concave–from the latest blows he'd sustained before he'd been transported to this world.  
  
Instead, he steps forward, feeling and following the Magiks in the air, his own latent skill and resistivity pressing outward to meet it, to gain familiarity. He steps forward, away from the strange race that seeks to destroy indiscriminately, (they share likeness–and, seemingly, temperment–to the Urutan-Yensa of the Sand-seas, but that is of no conseqence). Forward until he knows that he has the mage in green and gold's attention and kneels. (He is suddently aware of how naked he feels without his full plate to cover the leathers of his armour–it was rare he had not been with it–but there had been a few times-)  
  
Kneels, and speaks. "My lord."  
  
It's an affirmation (a mostly-truthful one, at that) and a redirection of attention in the same breath. And the man turns to look. Away from the civilians (Honestly, could they not see that this man was straining? Had they never seen a man in a high temper?) and almost wholly on him. This is good.  
  
He can feel the man's magiks seeking out his own magiks, pulsing past and spreading through him with a mild uncomfortable tinge that felt like one coldly and impersonally combing through the contents of one's life. It is not, however, an unfamiliar feeling, and he lets it pass. It is conjoined with the magiks of one  _not_  him–one  _other_ –and that feels more like a true invasion, and he has to force himself not to push it away, to not flinch or shiver. It however, brushed over more brusquely, and neither it nor the man truly reach the depths were he had hidden the remains of himself.  
  
He remains in deference, even as the black-haired man stops, and speaks in sharp-tongued insults (good ones, too, bitter and cutting and perfectly aimed) but he is well-used to those as well, and by one he had known far longer and had held far deeper (and had failed far more greatly), and so does not take them to heart. He takes this as a better sign, though, for with... for with the one he had served before, that had meant a cooling down of temperament, that the one could focus so long on one target meant that slowly he was coming down from this fit, the highness of spirits. (Was that the same for all? He could not say, he only knew the behavoirs of his lord).  
  
He seems calmer now, too, this black-haired man, the one he had proclaimed his lord. The rushing flow of cast magic is now more of a trickle, and those others, the team that the Director (Fury, his first name may have been Nicholas?) has put together is dealing with the invaders, satisfied, perhaps, of leaving him and the black-hair man alone. (And praise Faram, for the last thing that needed to be done was to send the man off into another spiral.)  
  
When the man relaxes, finally, the hyperawareness gone from the rapid shifting of his eyes, the tenseness in his body softening into that casual grace that is a fighter at rest, he slowly stands, still subservient, but he still takes a soft, deep breath. The invaders are falling inexplicably, dropping dead, and for half a moment, he sees in the black-haired man's eyes relief and... gratitude. And then the man collapses.

  
Catching the man is just as instictual as everything else he has done, the heavy weight of the man's size and armour cause a short hiss at the strain. A reminder that brings to the front of his mind all the damage he has still sustained and has yet to heal. Exhaustion drags at them both, and he would love to follow the black-haired man into slumber. That doesn't matter now, though, as the others, the 'Avenger' team, come to face him, and despite the pain, he cradles the man closer to his caved-in chest.  
  
The tallest, with long blond hair and a bearded face (almost like his brother, his twin, but not, the face is wrong, the build dissimilar; perhaps truly not much like him at all) steps forward like a man who knows the one in his arms, but he moves back before this man (Thor was the name he heard) can reach him.  
  
"How long has he been like this?"  
  
They stop in surprise, all of them, this team of warriors. He smiles inwardly. He did not know his voice could still hold such authority, though perhaps 19 years of life are not erased so easily as he had imagined.  
  
"Uh, you saw him just destroy half the city, pal-" That is the man in a full suit of armor. He feels the slightest bit of envy at this man with his plate uncrushed, but there are more pressing matters now.  
  
" _How long_  has he been in a high mood." Not a question, any more. A demand.  
  
"Uh... Excuse me?"  
  
He is losing patience. The black-haired man is a heavy burden in his arms, his magiks are long-used up, and he does not know for how much longer the stunned shock will hold them from attacking him.  
  
"How long has he been like this? Overly sensitive and aware, foregoing sleep, the frenzied speech, and twisted sense of purpose? When did this start?"  
  
"My brother-" Thor speaks now, "Loki has oft been in this manner, it is not unusual for him to be so sharp-tongued. He will emerge from it once he wakes."  
  
He has the strongest compulsion to punch this idiotic man in front of him, so careless of the delicate balance his 'brother' seeks to hold. It must show in his face, because the warriors tense, and Thor steps back half a pace.  
  
Director Fury is approaching now, but he does not care, the resentment at the man's careless attitude, his own grief and rage at his inability to help his former lord, his frustration with these warriors' utter  _blindeness_  and not even the innocence and ignorance of youth to give excuse (not that he would have granted it, he did not grant it to Dalmasca's young, soon-to-be queen, after all). The words pour from his lips with all the authority and command he can still muster from within him, with all the well-checked rage that boilds beneath his exterior.  
  
"You did not notice, then, that he was acting out of character? That any words or arguments you said only fueled him past rationality, that his actions were more extreme, more radical, more upset than would be usual? Could you not hear the manner in which he spoke; words tumbling over another to bitter, o'errushed purpose? Does this mean nothing to you?"  
  
"Director, sir?" Another woman, the S.H.I.E.L.D. leader in charge of operations (and she seemed to hold Drace's inner passion), "I believe subject designation f12 is describing the symtpoms of a manic episode." (She was stern and smart, very much like Drace, then.)  
  
"And what is this- 'manic episode' you speak of?" Thor, the fool, looks as though his reasoning about the world has been over-taxed.  
  
"It means your brother is crazy." Injuries be damned, if he believed that any of these warriors would care for the resting figure in his arms (Loki, care for Loki) he would challenge the armoured man right now and be done with it.  
  
The woman is not amused. "Stark."  
  
'Stark' is about to comment again, but seeing the look on his face as he turned to the woman to reply seemed to shut him up. It was almost getting comical that he, half-broken and straining from the wait of 'Loki' in his arms, was still worrying. He took a moment to consider. Perhaps it was  _because_  he was carrying the man in his arms. Because he had seen what was wrong, and had sough to right it, because he  _had_  helped, if only the slightest bit.  
  
It was about then that he overbalanced and stumbled backwards, spine landing against a pane of glass and sliding down as he cradled the man in his arms and exhaled a long hiss of pain as the golden epaulet of the man's armour was shoved into his already battered ribcage. The world was hazy, and he fought the pain and the black curling in around his vision, but fell into darkness all the same.  


 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full Text of poem:
> 
> "Grief"
> 
> I tell you hopeless grief is passionless,  
> That only men incredulous of despair,  
> Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air  
> Beat upward to God's throne in loud access  
> Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness  
> In souls, as countries, lieth silent-bare  
> Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare  
> Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express  
> Grief for thy dead in silence like to death—  
> Most like a monumental statue set  
> In everlasting watch and moveless woe  
> Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.  
> Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet;  
> If it could weep, it could arise and go.


	2. Step Two: Diagnosis

Waking consists of grapsing at bedsheets in a sterile white room, pale and cold and sweating and shaking. He bolts upright on habit, reaching for a sword that is not there, and regets it, the movement jarring the bindings on his chest and pulling at the tubes inserted into his veins. (For a moment, he panics again, thinking of Bergan and his Lord, but what enters in is no nethecite, no magical creation of man, only water.)

He finds his demons and memories have not followed him here; there is no stench of burning flesh of countrymen, no knowing smile of the magisters, no smirk on Vayne-his lord-Vayne's face, no brother with eyes saying both 'I am sorry' and 'Betrayer', no pained breaths, no certainty of death to come (and was this not his happiest memory of all? The end to that curse of a life so near to his grasp.

"Hell of a way to wake up."

There is a man sitting on an oddly-composed chair (what is it made of? Not cloth, certainly, it was too stiff, but neither is it any wood or metal he had seen in his life. Perhaps a rubber of some sort? But that was a largely experimental substance...). One of the Avengers, the ranged man, with a bow and an aim that even Archadia's best yeomen would be jealous of.

Even though the fat that the man had apparently been in his room a while, and yet still had not wakened him is a worrying thought, he has other concerns this moment. He shifts to the edge the bed and forces himself to stand, careful to detatch the hoses in his arms, this time.

"It's hardly unusual. Where is the other? Now can be a disorienting time, delicate, if one does not want another... fit, as yesterdays had been."

He grunts at the pain in his chest (feeling slightly more as though it were in the right shape, at least. A plus.

"You aren't going to be going anywhere right now."

He looks at the archer then, and smiles, bitter.

"You will not be able to stop me. I can move past the pain." It is true, but even more true is the trickling of his magicks returning, and the small well of it that he has already gained he forces through his body with a 'renew'. It is, at best, a temporary solution, and he trusts that those who had seen to his care before had re-aligned his bones, for the short burst of accelerating healing could easily knit them together as they remain oriented at this moment. He will have to inspect himself later.

* * *

Tony Stark is surprised to find that S.H.I.E.L.D.'s new guest is moving so quickly when he passes by the containment station where Loki is laying, an IV drip hanging from a stand. He has access to all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files, he saw the reported damage. Five ribs crushed, near-punctured lung, head trauma and concussion, and the remnants of wounds that had not been healed before whatever the man's last engagement had been. And still the man is sitting there at Loki's bedside, bright as a daisy as though he had not been in intesive care only hours earlier. Tony was impressed at hi staying power.

Still, Fury had called a meeting and he needed to get going. Tony paused a moment and thought. Perhaps this new guy ought to come, too. He'd had a better idea of what was going on in the crazy demi-god's than anyone else had. Almost instant diagnosis. Which Tony knew was very hard to do.

"Hey, blondie, Fury says it's 'let's sit around a table and share' time, so we should get going."

Tony expected a few words of protest. He didn't expect the man to sigh as though put-upon, run a hand through his hair, then step out of the ward and head directly for the conference room with an eyebrow quirked at tony as if to say "You coming?". How did the guy even know where the conference room was anyway?

When everyone is seated, Tony continues to be surprised. It's like the man already knows exactly how this meeting is going to turn out; he is replying to every question that is aimed in his direction before they finish speaking it and listening patiently and calmly through what everyone else has to say.

Tony can see it, the tiredness that pinches the corners of his eyes, the façade of calm that allows the man to keep a straight face throughout the whole ordeal.

Some government shrink (Dr. Anne Bradley, psychiatrist) is brought in, and Tony watches as the man describes the symptoms he witnessed and lets the doctor come to the diagnosis on her own. Turns out Loki truly is manic-depressive, and the fact that some demi-god started an alien invasion and killed over a hundred people within the space of three days because the chemicals in his brain were unbalanced and his synapses were misfiring and _Thor doesn't get any of this at all_ leaves Tony feeling like he wants to cry and scream and just sink into oblivion all at the same time.

But that isn't the worst part. The worst part is when Dr. Bradley starts prescribing medication and discussing treatments behaviors and the man's face goes stone cold. Marble like the countertops in his kitchen. And the split second before that mask snapped in place Tony could swear he saw the glimpse of a man utterly broken. He doesn't get it. Loki–who this guy, for some indiscernible reason, has become attached to–can be helped, and all this man can do is slap on a marble face to hide his pain?

Eventually the meeting comes to a close, the psychiatrist leaves and the rest of the avengers move to join her, when the man takes a deep breath, as if to collect himself, and turns to Thor.

"Has anything happened that would have greatly disturbed him lately?"

Everyone stops and looks at the man, Tony himself included, and try not to stare in shock. The voice sounded so... so broken. The man continues.

"I only ask because my lord was-" a pause, as if searching for the right words, "-more stable, as a rule. That changed." 

A longer pause, as if the man is trying to gather the courage to speak, or perhaps just to gather the courage to face what he is about to say.

"That changed when his father, the Emperor, ordered him to kill his two older brothers," An exhale. "And he did."

Tony doesn't know what to say, can't begin to fathom being in a place where he couldn't speak out to stop something like that from happening, can't imagine being in a place where that _would_ happen, and Thor, oh God, Thor is so silent and just staring and his face is breaking the way the man's did when he heard the doctor speaking and What The _HELL_ is going on here, exactly.

Clearly, the man knows the look on Thor's face, for he continues, looking down at his hands folded on the glass tabletop. "Afterwards, his mania seemed to worsen, and he would fluctuate moods, as Dr. Bradley described. He became obsessed with an idea that would save all the inhabitants of Ivalice, our world, from the 'control' of false gods. He could not place weight in lives, any more, and he utterly decimated countries to get what he needed."

A pause, and a chuckle that is more sad than anything that held humor. "And he succeeded. And it did, in the end, topple the false-gods from their pedestal." Tony can almost read the words hanging in the air something heavy and not-quite-real, but the man says them anyways. "At the cost of his soul, and mine. Freely given."

He looks up briefly, and his hand forms into a fist of frustration as he looks back down at the tabletop. "I struggled for years to help him, for we could not seek help, and none knew what this illness could be." He laughs again, self deprecating and tinging on the hysterical and broken and _damn it_ , becoming Iron Man did not make it any easier to deal with strong emotions, no matter how well suppressed. "And it can be dealt with.”

But the man stands, composure regained, and nods to Director Fury and Agent Hill both, and gives them both a soft ‘Thank you’ before turning to the rest of the Avengers and doing the same.

“Hey, wait-” Tony doesn’t know why he was compelled to speak but somethings been egging at him and hey, why not get it done now? “You got a name? One that, y’know, isn’t a collection of numbers and letters that Director Suit randomly assigned?”

The man opens his mouth to reply, something rote on his tongue, before he stops abruptly and looks, for a moment lost and unsure (and hell, how was he supposed to know that asking a man’s name was that big of a deal?) before resolve settles across his face and he holds out a hand for Tony to shake. “Noah.”


	3. Step 3: Observation (Interlude)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been forever since I've updated this, and it will likely be another forever after this update. Most of the story threads I had going are sort of dead, and I am so busy that I don't have the time to devote to do this justice at the moment.

Loki isn't quite sure what to make of the man. (Noah, he offers. Noah ben-Jachin. Noah fon Ronsenburg) The quick feeling-out he'd done with his magic before he'd passed out had marked the man as non-hostile, and his continued actions seemed to verify that theory, but he still cannot help but be puzzled. The man had been sitting quietly in the room when Loki had woken up, and in spite of everything he'd tried since then, the man has been irritatingly unflappable. Loki is rather offended on behalf of his ego. He is a trickster god, and this being is apparently both immune to irriation and not in the slightest unsettled by the carnage left behind by the Chitauri army that he had led.

He simply... served. And while Loki finds that he enjoys the feeling of someone who is sworn to him, it is... inexplicable. Loki is the Liesmith, but that also means he intimately knows truth; many strange, twisted, brilliant truths reside in his head, and he desperately wants to know this one. Wants to know _why_.

Noah gets along well with the doctors, Banner and Anne (his 'psychiatrist') both. With the woman, he is often seen in deep conversation, discussing things in terms that he does not understand (and, not infrequently, Noah does not understand either, from the vague feelings of frustrated incomprehension that radiate of the tenseness in his shoulders).

With Bruce, one of the many monsters on the ship, Noah seems to have struck up a friendship on the simple basis that nothing Banner has ever done as the Beast is a feat that Noah cannot top with mal-intention. Even though he still holds some grudge against the monster (though it had yet to directly harm him... yet) he tries to subtly cultivate this friendship. It is the easiest way to learn of his life from before. As far as Banner goes, it amuses him to no end that, while Miss Romanov had clearly and cleverly outsmarted him (and he respects that, in a twisted part of himself) she had still failed to realize that when he said "monster" he had not specifically intended Banner. To no matter, it had aided his purpose, so he did not count the 'failed' manipulation a loss.

Not that any of it mattered now.

With world domination so clearly out of the question, it seems childish to care for such plans. Noah is far more interesting.


End file.
